NExt oNE: The Sequel
by Oceans in Hand
Summary: NExt oNE is particularly full tonight. The owner would get it if the fire marshal dropped in. Cross/Kanda, PWP.


**NExt oNE: The Sequel  
**_Return to the Club!_

"Stick in the mud…I'll show _them_ a stick in the mud..." Kanda growls, not bothering to check his volume. Why make the effort, when no one will hear him over the music anyway?

NExt oNE is particularly full tonight, too. Usually the club is a few dozen bodies over its occupancy limit anyway, but the owner would _really_ get it if the fire marshal dropped in tonight. Kanda has to pinch and elbow his way through the crowd when he decides to cut through a corner of the dance floor, and the bartender sure takes her sweet time getting him his whatever's-on-tap.

The beer tastes, frankly, like peanuts and play-doh.

Kanda drinks it anyway, too desperate for a buzz to listen to his whining inner snob. He'll murder all of his friends before the night's end if he doesn't get some kind of alcohol into his system, and making new ones always blows.

He drops his head to the countertop in a moment of weakness, remembering belatedly that this isn't a wise choice because…Yep. He's stuck.

Brilliant.

He tells the carved graffiti at the end of his nose, "I need to get laid."

Unexpectedly, "Right there with you, babe."

Kanda freaks out for a second (and it's here he begins to realize that he might be something more than buzzed at this point) before he realizes the comment came from the woman in the stool beside him. Not the graffiti.

She laughs. It's a pretty laugh. It reminds him of bells.

He looks her over with a critical eye, noting how her green eyes shine with cheer. Blonde hair in sweet curls is caught up in a ponytail and pulled away from her face, except for a few playful coils. Her top is tight-fitting, presenting him with a pleasing neckline and just a hint of bust.

Kanda separates his cheek from the bar with a squelch and adds a few degrees of warmth to his demeanor. He says, "Any idea where I could take care of that?"

The way she grins makes the light reflect very nicely off of her lip gloss. The blonde crooks a finger at him and leans in conspiratorially. He inclines obligingly in her direction.

Their faces are so close, all he can see is her green eyes (which are really, really green and pretty) and the laugh-wrinkles at the corners. Her voice is a husky whisper.

"_The bathrooms._" She says.

A part of him balks at that. The bathrooms? Let's see. Unhygienic. Cramped. Smelly. Probably occupied. No thanks.

But another drink is ordered and drunk, and suddenly he's finding himself a little more open to the idea. The blonde is still there beside him, so he catches her attention with a wobble and confirms, "The bathrooms?"

Her smile is tight-lipped but still friendly and cute when she nods, rising from her stool with a sexy slink.

Kanda grins, and follows her…

…only to totally, and utterly lose her in the mass of bodies. The song changes spare moments after they set foot on the floor, and the one that plays next is assumedly a popular tune—because people surge like waves from the tables and couches, and from the overhead balconies to grab a partner or three and shake their booty. The woman's bouncing ponytail is lost within a single lyric, and Kanda is not. Happy. He can't even find the bathroom in this mess by himself…but a man's got to try, right?

He does, eventually. Find the bathroom, that is. It takes him long enough that he doubts she's waiting for him inside. And—he suddenly realizes, like a punch in the gut—he doesn't know if she would've gone into the women's or the men's.

And like a cherry on top of this steaming pile of bullshit, some smartass has spirited away the identifying plaks, leaving only the holes where their nails had been, and squares where the wear on the door is notably less.

He plays einie-meanie-minie-mo for a minute before going, 'what the fuck am I doing?' and pushing roughly past the door on the left.

Door Number #1 is the men's room, and it is smelly, cramped, and unhygienic, but not occupied. Mostly it is blissfully quiet, and Kanda takes up residency in stall to just bask in the lack of noise for a while. The thumping bass that is felt plainly in the walls, in the floor beneath his soles is tolerable (even if it is contributing to his blooming headache) in the face of such wonderful _silence_.

Rustling comes from the stall beside his, and Kanda peeks to his left from one narrowed eye curiously.

Blondie? Maybe, just maybe? His luck is occasionally that good.

His cock hardens marginally, thinking hopefully on her hands and healthy, round hips.

_The bathroom,_ she had said; a place where he could take care of his I-haven't-had-sex-in-a-whole-fucking-month problem. There is a hole slightly bigger than his fist cut into the side of the stall, with a crude Sharpie drawing of a dick underneath.

Framing it in block letters are the instructions, DICK GOES HERE :).

The :) doubles as a period, he suspects.

The rustling comes again, this time followed by a tentative rapping of knuckles.

_Oh, hell yes_, he thinks triumphantly, as he fumbles with his zipper with anticipation-clumsy fingers, and passes his half-hard member through the hole.

Later, his excuse for this will be that he was drunk.

His eyes go wide and he very nearly yelps when the hand that takes him on the other side is _large _and tough and very obviously male. Kanda grinds his teeth and presses his forehead viciously into the stall, thinking furiously _what the_ hell _do I do now?_ even as the faceless man—and most definitely not Blondie—strokes him with strong, confident pulls to full hardness.

A calloused thumb gently presses against his head, and Kanda allows the moan that whistles through his teeth to decide for him. His earlier statement still stands: he needs to get laid.

And it's not like he hasn't had guys before, anyway.

The hand doesn't stop. Kanda begins to pant and squirm embarrassingly against the stall, causing the bolts to whine at him. A smoky chuckle drifts from the other side, and the pressure around him briefly vanishes—before a hot, wet mouth takes all of him in one swoop. Kanda's cheeks and neck burn red and his mouth is now clamped firmly shut, but his cry still echoes in the spacious bathroom.

He feels the lips around his cock stretch into a smile. His flush deepens, but he isn't able to stop himself from thrusting uselessly into the wall, damn the noisy screws. It's not like he can help it—surprisingly, the embarrassment, the anonymity—he's so ridiculously turned on, he's already about to fucking _burst_.

Until the guy freaking stops.

"What the hell?" Kanda gasps.

That's just uncool.

The hinges of what he assumes to be the man's stall door squeal, and the voice that matches that single smothered laugh says, "Unlock the door."

Kanda does so, immediately, without pause.

The man that thereafter shoves into the (suddenly very tiny) bathroom stall is none other than his old tenth grade Calculus teacher, Marion Cross.

Whose absolutely enormous cock is hard and shining in his hand.

Kanda goes bug-eyed. "What the fuc-?"

"You want it or not?" Cross interrupts, even as he pushes Kanda flat against the stall and kicks his legs apart, the younger man's jeans already at his knees.

"I-" Yes, but Jesus, he can't make himself actually _say_ it. Luckily, Cross doesn't seem to need his explicit permission. He knows the sound of condom being opened, and hears the other man hiss wickedly as he rolls it down his own length.

Kanda's tongue is still frozen of shock in his mouth…or so he thinks, until he surprises himself by saying in tone…quite unbefitting of his current bare-assed, spread-eagle position, "That thing better be lubricated."

"It is, princess."

His nickname in tenth grade was Puss, for reasons unknown. Good ole Dr. Cross doesn't seem to remember him.

Well.

'Gifts of the present hour' and all that, he supposes.

Cross unceremoniously pushes a single, thick finger into Kanda's ass.

He gasps and freezes, rising up on his toes and clenching reflexively. Cross brings a hand to spank him once with a sharp, ringing _slap_, and groans deeply and happily. Bending over the shorter man, he buries his nose in Kanda's hair and inhales. His voice is a low, rocky growl when he says, "Gonna be a tight fit, boy."

Kanda moans. Meanwhile, the digit inside him is joined by two more like it, and he's doing all he can to stop himself from moving into them. Cross nudges his head to the side and, bracing his forehead against the stall like Kanda, presses his cheek into the place beside the other's eye. It is strangely and uncomfortably intimate, to feel the man's throat against his face moving with every approving hum and heavy breath, but Kanda is too distracted at the moment to plead offense.

The blunt head of Cross's cock moves into position to replace his fingers, and Kanda suffers a moment of fear—sure, he's had anal before, but never with someone so…well equipped—

Cross is moving into him before he can say anything if he was planning to. Kanda's mouth falls open in a long, soundless moan, his chest heaving with a single humongous pant as he feels his body slowly allow for the other man's entrance. The hot slide of him seems to take forever, and Kanda begins to fear that that cock will penetrate his stomach before he remembers that he's got to make it through a colon and sixteen feet of small intestines before that.

_Even _his _cock isn't that big_, Kanda thinks, somewhat hysterically.

Finally, Cross's balls settle comfortably against his ass, and beside his head the man groans haltingly.

The math teacher was right. It is an _insanely_ tight fit.

For at least a dozen heart beats and twice as many thumps of bass, the only sound in the (unrealistically, still) empty bathroom is their arrhythmic breathing. There is a pause as, outside, the song tapers off and now it is still as well.

Kanda is numbly focused on Cross's big, thick-skinned hand flattened on the stall two inches from his nose, the flurry of thin red hairs starting beneath the heavily creased skin of his wrist. Cross's mouth is near his temple; he feels a wash of warm breath, and the older man says gruffly, "Going to move now." just as the next song begins. By the fourth thrust, Cross's hips are moving in time with the pounding bass.

Deep, shallow, shallow, _slow_ and deep, deep. Kanda doesn't even know what song is playing, but it's immediately his new favorite. The powerful pull of Cross's cock on his asshole as it goes…in…and out…is…un…be…_lie_vable_…!_

His favorite song continues to pick up tempo the longer it plays. Cross does likewise, and Kanda comes at the last resounding note. The final half-dozen beats are still pulsing in his bones (though that might be his heart) as Cross pulls out and lowers him, mumbling, onto the toilet.

Escaped strands from his old professor's ponytail are sweat-stuck to his cheeks, and his beard glistens with trapped moisture as he strokes himself to groaning completion with a blurred hand. Cross sprays his t-shirt and thighs with burning drops of semen, then he braces himself against the wall to catch his breath. He tucks himself away and zips up once he has, and leaves—but not before giving Kanda's boneless leg a few stinging pats.

Another song has started and finished before Kanda can move, and even then he trembles so violently it takes him several attempts to fasten his pants. His crystal blue t-shirt is dotted, and his own release has soaked through the denim to leave a suggestive stain on the inside thigh of his pant leg. His hair is a stringy mess, and he tries to finger comb the worst of it away without much success. His weak joints, his shaking knees and flushed complexion—these things he doesn't even bother with. He can barely make the effort to pull open the bathroom door.

As it is, he has to use both hands.

Maneuvering through the crowd is a mysteriously simple endeavor this time, though he hardly notices. He tumbles into the space made for him at his friends' table, languid and aching deliciously.

Every throb in his lower back is practically a pleasure. He hasn't been fucked like that…ever.

The conversation around the table peters out as Lavi, the guiding force, takes notice of their blissed out, rematerialized friend, and stops to stare in bemusement.

"Oh my g-god." Lenalee manages through a handful of astonished giggles.

"_Somebody_ had a good time." Lavi whistles, leering as Allen begins to laugh at his side.

Kanda only groans pathetically.

* * *

**Started out as a fill for the dgm_kink meme...but I decided to use a setting from another fic...and figured I'd just out myself and give the requester the link. The request was 'Cross/Kanda, Kanda doesn't know it's Cross until it's too late.' I don't know what made my brain immediately jump to glory holes, buuuuut...whatever.**

**I would like to thank the requester for a beautiful prompt. I hope everyone enjoys this piece; I had a blast writing it :D**

**-Oceans**


End file.
